


I Must Admit It

by andwhatyousaid



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, High School Party Hook-Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1705679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andwhatyousaid/pseuds/andwhatyousaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Scott ropes Chris into giving him a ride to a weekend party, Chris isn't expecting to see anyone he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Must Admit It

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a [vision board](http://andwhatyousaid.tumblr.com/post/87152810902/i-must-admit-it-chris-evans-sebastian-stan-under) I put together, feel free to browse. Warnings for minor underage alcohol use. No underage kissing, though. 
> 
> Eternal blessed thanks to [Becca](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fallfreely) for the speedy, encouraging read-through & warm thanks to [Caris](http://aprica56.tumblr.com) for hand-holding. It physically hurt me to write in a Celtics reference, but I did it for you, Chris Evans; please don't google yourself. On that note —disclaimer: 1000% fiction. Title sourced from "The Way" by Ariana Grande. Thank you very much for reading!

Chris doesn’t know anybody at this dumb party, but Scott made him pinky-promise on two separate occasions that he’d go, so what was he gonna do. Besides, Scott needed a ride and Chris isn’t a total monster; he knows he owes Scott for taking the fall for that antique ceramic vase Chris accidentally smashed with a basketball  _and_ for the ding on the bumper of their mom’s van.

It’s not like Chris feels so much older than Scott or anything normally, but he’s suddenly abruptly conscious of it —his newly grown beard and awkwardly huge shoulders in a sea of kids wandering around with their hair weirdly bleached in patches and peach-fuzz on their chins and more eyeliner than clothes sometimes. He’s parked himself in a relatively safe corner of whoever’s house it is, and he’s clinging to his sweating, half-empty Budweiser can. So far he hasn’t had to do much more than field small talk if anyone stumbles over to the drinks table by him or falls into the wall for a minute to pass out real quick or catch their breath, and everyone’s too drunk or high or both to be anything except for friendly, which is cool. Even the couple who were heavily making-out next to him for a while were nice before they moved on.

He’d texted Mackie for something to do after Scotty ditched him —not that Chris was expecting Scotty to stick around, God no —and his phone buzzes now with the response. Mackie’s laughing at him.  _What loser goes to a high school party_ , Mackie’s said. _You’re like one of those creepers who still owns a varsity jacket. Feel for you bro_.

Chris passes a hand over his face, but it really isn’t that bad, even if the image rings oddly true. He does pick Scott up from school sometimes. Anyway, Mackie’s clearly useless, so he switches to texting Scarlett instead.

Scarlett replies after Chris has managed to grab another can from the ice-chest and traded stats on the Celtics with this bro in a backwards cap. She’s texted, _maybe you’ll see that guy, you know the one_.

Chris does know the one. Scott brought the kid by for a project one weekend when Chris was visiting from campus, and Chris had to keep coming up with excuses to stay busy in the adjacent den so that he could keep a discreet eye on them working away at —Chris doesn’t know —a powerpoint for  _Catcher in the Rye_ or something until Scott had given Chris a look from all the way across the room and announced they were moving upstairs instead. Then Chris’d went outside in their driveway and played hoops; he’d had so many slam-dunks that he’d broke the rim. He still hasn’t fixed it. He spares a wince for that and texts Scarlett back: _Youre worse than Mackie_.

He hopes that kid isn’t here; Chris should’ve asked Scott, he really should’ve asked Scott, and maybe worn a different shirt. He scrubs his hand through his hair —he’s just shaved it all down at the beginning of summer and it’s starting to grow back in; the feeling’s just enough to jerk Chris out of it, shake his head and clear it. “Come on, Evans,” he says aloud to himself. He downs his beer, and goes for another.

 

*

 

He’s sunk into just enough of a daze to not notice how much time has passed. The music’s cranked all the way up now, bass thrumming through everyone’s bones, the light’s lowered so that everything’s sort of hazy with a glow —the kind of dim that smooths everyone’s features out, makes their skin look young and newborn —and it’s getting harder for Chris to avoid being pulled into a dance with a someone or two.

He must seem genuine enough when he politely turns down first a girl and then two guys at once, saying, “Aw, no, I’m sorry, afraid I’m chaperoning tonight,” and hefting his beer can up at them that he gets left alone after a while. He’d join in on the beer pong table, but it feels kind of weird doing it with potential sixteen year-olds. He’s texted Scotty asking when he thinks he’ll want to head out, but Chris is half-guilty over it; he knows shouldn’t rush Scott like that. Maybe, Chris’s thinking, he’ll just go wait out by his car and reread  _The Power of Now_ , which he’s pretty sure he left in the backseat.

Someone bumps into his shoulder —Chris is standing around, zoning out into space like an idiot —and Chris apologizes immediately, reaching out without thinking to steady the kid by his shoulder. “Hey, sorry, you alright there?” Chris says. Then he gets a look at the kid’s face.

“Sorry, no, my fault, my bad,” the guy —and of fucking course it’s the same guy, the one Scotty brought home that weekend —tells Chris. The guy offers this sort of sheepish grin that lifts one side of his mouth higher than the other. His face looks kind of flushed —probably from the lights —and his eyes are bright, his t-shirt collar twisted away so that half of his collarbone is visible.

Chris must be staring because next he knows the guy’s touching the underside of Chris’s elbow gently and his face grows more intent as he’s saying, “Really, I’m fine, I swear, got pushed, that’s all.”

Chris jerks his hand away from the kid’s shoulder reflexively, but he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he kind of lets it hang out mid-air. “Hey,” he says, before he can think about it. “Don’t I know you? I’m just thinking —you look so familiar.”

The guy laughs, low and sweet, and then leans in closer to say by Chris’s ear over the noise, “Thought I was going crazy, you looked familiar too, but I didn’t wanna say anything if it was just me. Scott’s brother, right?”

“Yeah, right,” Chris says, back into the guy’s ear. “Chris.” Then he adds, “Evans,” like a dork.

“Sebastian,” he says back to Chris, his breath hot on the side of Chris’s face. He doesn’t offer a last name, probably because he’s a normal human being.

Chris swallows. His hand is still hanging there, mid-air, so he grabs Sebastian into an impromptu, bodily hug, quick but enough to feel the press of Sebastian right up against him, and lets him go as quickly as he’d pulled him in.

“Good to see you,” Chris says in a rush, hardly sparing a moment to look Sebastian in the face. He backs up, hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m just gonna —” He gestures again with his thumb.

“Wait,” Sebastian says, “Mind if I come with?” He grins at Chris, his teeth flashing under the lights. “Could use some air myself.” His voice is kind of thick, accented, though Chris can’t place from where. But he wouldn’t mind hearing more.

Instead of asking  _How old are you_ , Chris nods and shouts what he hopes is a yes, and then clears enough space for Sebastian to politely step in front of him. He does, shooting Chris another half-grin, and he leads the both of them through the crowded, humid living room until they’re breaching the front porch.

There’re a few kids hanging off the front steps, cigarettes or spliffs lit up, but they don’t pay much mind to Sebastian or Chris —though one guy nods in greeting at Sebastian, who wriggles his fingers in a lazy wave back, and Chris tries not to find it too cute.

Chris is admittedly distracted, anyway, watching Sebastian’s back as they creep down the steps and out towards the lawn; it’s easy to see with the flare of the porch lights and the moon seeping over them, settling over the top of Sebastian’s head like a silver halo, that the cotton of Sebastian’s t-shirt is worn-through, or maybe thin on purpose, intentionally transparent. Chris can see the wings of Sebastian’s shoulders, the line of his spine in stark relief; even if Chris closes his eyes, he can still see it, but he’s not sure that’s the all the shirt’s fault. It’d probably feel like nothing under Chris’s hand —like feathers or paper or just like Sebastian’s hot, bare skin.

Sebastian tilts his head over his shoulder to look at Chris. “Were you going somewhere special?” He’s stopped them at the edge of the lawn where the cement begins.

The lawn’s scattered with a few stragglers like the porch, but they’re both away from the noise now. The house’s lit up like fireworks on the dark street. There’re lamps down the block, but none right by them, and Chris doesn’t want to stay in the dark, so they head towards his car.

“Do you mind?” Sebastian says, as they start off down the block. He’s tucking a cigarette into the corner of his mouth, raising his eyebrows in question.

Chris tries not to look too hard at him. “No, nah, that’s fine,” he says and resists asking for one himself, just for something to do.

He hears Sebastian’s lighter click, his sharp inhale, but manfully ignores it in favor of tucking his hands in his pockets and squinting across the street at nothing. Chris has Mackie’s voice in his head telling him that it’d only be self-induced torture to look at Sebastian’s face or mouth or hands right now, and he knows his inner-Mackie voice is right, always right, but Chris glances anyway, and immediately regrets having to take in the sight of smoke dissipating loosely around Sebastian’s face in the night air like a caress; the way Sebastian angles his head to look at Chris is like he’s been waiting for it —grinning and then pursing his mouth to take another drag.

Lucky for Chris, Sebastian stamps his cigarette out with his boot after only a few slow drags, and then they’re curbside at Chris’s beat-up sedan gleaming under one of the streetlamps.

Chris jiggles his keys in his hand. “So, this is me,” he says, giving Sebastian a grin.

Sebastian laughs and leans up against the side of the car. His shirt pulls away from his collarbones again and gets twisted up at his side too. His jeans are too tight and too skinny and too low for Chris to not get a flash of his skin or drop his eyes automatically to Sebastian’s hips at the movement. “You taking off or something?” Sebastian's saying.

“What?” Chris says, looking up. “No, no, Scotty, I —I’m his ride, so I’m, you know.” He waves his car keys around.

Sebastian nods like he gets it. He seems content to hang out by Chris’s car approximately forever, staring off into middle-distance, his hair ruffling against his forehead from the slight, crisp breeze, loose and sort of curled, and Chris definitely can’t do this forever, so he checks his phone. But Scott hasn’t texted him yet.

When Chris looks at Sebastian again, he’s watching Chris with a subdued smile. “I read about these constellations for a class once,” Sebastian says, his voice going kind of hoarse, probably from the smoke. “But, it’s too cloudy out.” He nods up at the sky. Then he shrugs. “Scott said you were into astronomy.”

“Did he?” Chris says, surprised, touching his own chest as if to confirm it’s him they’re both talking about. “I took a few units on it, it’s pretty cool.”

He starts to tell Sebastian that he missed this one meteor shower he was really looking forward to, and Sebastian’s sort of grinning, his nose scrunching up, and laughing, but he starts to shiver too, crosses his arms over his chest like he’s trying to keep warm, so Chris abruptly cuts himself off. He has a flannel on himself, so he hadn’t noticed. “Sorry, are you —you gotta be cold, that shirt looks. Uh. We can go back or something.”

“Nah, it’s fine, I’m fine,” Sebastian says, but he shivers again even while he tries to smile reassuringly.

“We can,” Chris says next, slowly, “go in my car?”

“Sure,” Sebastian says right away, and bites his lip.

 

*

 

Chris twists his keys in the engine just enough to switch the heater on, and Sebastian thanks him more than once as he settles into the passenger seat. He twists around to face Chris, the seat’s cheap leather wrinkling in the silence.

Chris doesn’t wanna be trapped in the dark with him again, so he switches on one of the overhead lights and it bathes Sebastian’s face, his bare arms, the tops of his thighs in those black skinny jeans in a warm glow. Then Sebastian looks down at the junk stuffed in Chris’s dual cup holders and touches it with his fingers delicately, and Chris has to see how long Sebastian’s eyelashes look, black smudges against the apples of his cheeks.

“What’s this?” Sebastian says, sounding intrigued. He’s holding a pamphlet Chris must’ve stashed in his car a couple weeks ago about a production of  _As You Like It_ that his college’s putting on.

“Oh, yeah —was thinkin’ about trying out, I don’t know, my friend Ryan told me to,” Chris says, scratching the back of his head. He laughs, mostly at himself. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Why not,” Sebastian says, grinning down at the open pamphlet he’s skimming through. “You should go for it. This is awesome.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Chris says. “Tried to audition for this weird version of  _Orlando_ we were doing last semester, and I think I threw up in my mouth and had to leave.”

Sebastian laughs —bright and open, but it isn’t mean or anything, so Chris laughs too.

“Come on,” Sebastian says after he calms down, still sounding far too amused. He nudges Chris with an elbow. “You can’t be that bad.”

“Not that bad at everything,” Chris says, nudging him back.

“Oh,” Sebastian says, and the humor drops from his face. “I’m sure.” His eyes look intent again, like when Chris’d first bumped into him. He sets the pamphlet carefully back where he found it.

He must lean in a bit closer too because Chris can suddenly smell the smoke clinging to his clothes and a whiff of his cologne —kind of subtle, like amber or fucking jasmine or something —and his eyes look big and blue.

Chris swallows. He’s an adult, he tells himself. He has his own apartment that he shares with a roommate even if he doesn’t really pay rent and his own car and in a month he’ll be able to legally buy alcohol. “You’re —like, eighteen, right?” he says, and then winces.

Sebastian just laughs, though, and seems to lean in closer, because he’s saying right into Chris’s ear like they’re cramped into that small corner in the house party again — “Yeah, don’t worry. You can check my ID, if you want.”

“Nah,” Chris says, huffing a laugh and resisting squirming. “I trust you.”

“You’re not gonna throw up or anything, right?” Sebastian says, still too close, his laugh caught in his voice.

“Wasn’t planning on it, unless this is an audition,” Chris says, grin slipping out. Before he can think about it any longer, he tilts his head to the side and kisses Sebastian.

Sebastian makes a soft sound right away, the tips of his fingers holding onto Chris’s jaw, and he kisses more slowly than Chris thought he would, than Chris thinks he might be able to handle, but he forces himself to breathe out through his nose and sink into it. Sebastian’s mouth is hot and soft, tastes like the cigarette he’d had and something sweet he must’ve been drinking, and it gets even better when Sebastian opens his mouth up, his hand flattening onto the side of Chris’s neck, his thumb brushing through the bristles of Chris’s beard.

Sebastian kisses the corner of Chris’s mouth and pulls back a little. “This is new,” he says, his thumb brushing along Chris’s jaw again, through his beard in a slow drag.

Chris’s kind of startled that Sebastian’s remembered Chris’s previously fresh, shaven face well enough to say so. “Yeah, you like it?” Chris says, feeling himself grin, his face over-warm.

“Yeah,” Sebastian says, “you gonna talk to me about taxes and mortgages or somethin’? Could cast you as a thirty-year old.” Then Sebastian kisses him again and says, “It’s hot,” and Chris forgets about anything else.  

Before Chris knows it, he’s slicking his tongue into Sebastian’s mouth, tugging him forward with a hand tangled in his hair, another around the small of his back, pulling him over the gear shift. Chris was right —he can feel Sebastian’s skin right through his shirt.

Sebastian’s kind of tall though, all legs, so he can’t climb into Chris’s lap the way Chris had been picturing, especially with Chris’s seat pulled up to the wheel, and it makes them both laugh when Sebastian gets stuck —at least until Sebastian nods his head towards the darkened, empty, waiting backseat and says, “Shall we?”

Chris follows him back, unable to keep his hand from touching Sebastian’s back, pointlessly guiding him, his skin warm under Chris’s hand.

Sebastian collapses with huff, his legs stretched out in front of him, and even though it’s darker here, Chris can still see the reddened, shiny swell of his mouth, his face gone pink and flushed. Chris tugs him in again as soon as he’s settled, and Sebastian goes easily, straddling Chris’s lap, his thighs hot on either side of Chris’s through their jeans. Sebastian has to curl down a little —they’re nearly the same height and his car isn’t huge —but Sebastian doesn’t seem to mind if the way his mouth opens right up for Chris is any indication.

Chris tries to be respectful about his hands on Sebastian’s sides, rather than sliding them up under his shirt like he wants to, but he might as well be; the sheer material’s silky in Chris’s palms, smooth like Sebastian’s skin probably is underneath, right there —heated up and solid and real. Sebastian bites at his bottom lip, then sucks it into his mouth, and Chris groans, his legs falling open further, Sebastian settling more comfortably, heavily against him.

They make-out lazily for a while; there’s nothing except for the soft, slick sounds of their mouths, and then Chris fists his hand in the back of Sebastian’s hair because Sebastian rocks his hips gently, maybe accidentally, and Chris can’t help it, he’s so hard in his own jeans already, just from this, and Sebastian moans into his mouth. Chris’s eyes just about roll back in his head.

Sebastian lets Chris fuck his tongue into his mouth, and then he pulls back, breathing hard, his mouth red and wet, and he says, “Why’d you bother wearing a shirt, anyway.” He tugs at Chris’s flannel. “How many layers do you have on.”

“Just —two,” Chris says, distracted and honest, but he sort of gasps it because Sebastian’s pulling at Chris’s buttons, and his head’s still ducked so close to Chris, too close for Chris to resist.

He kisses Sebastian and then breaks away, tells him, “Hang on,” and pulls his flannel and the plain tee underneath over his head in one movement, tosses them at his feet. Somehow he magically doesn’t elbow Sebastian in the face, and Sebastian even raises one eyebrow in thanks, his mouth lilting in a smirk, one hand on Chris’s chest.

“I like a man who can think on his feet,” he says. Then he laughs at his own lame joke, so Chris has to kiss him again.

Sebastian pulls away again after a moment, though, touching slowly just below Chris’s collarbone on his left pec. “What’s —did you get a tattoo?” he says.

It’s pretty new. Chris got it done a couple weeks ago, so it’s still kind of raised and weirdly itchy and sensitive. He doesn’t want to tell Sebastian to stop touching it, though. “Yeah,” Chris answers, “it’s a quote, from this Eckhart Tolle book. I’ll read it to you sometime.”

Sebastian suddenly grips Chris’s jaw and kisses him hard.

Chris takes his shirtlessness as general permission to slide his hands up the back of Sebastian’s shirt like he’s wanted to, and he’s rewarded with Sebastian moaning into his mouth again, his hand slipping up and down Chris’s chest. Chris shifts his hips restlessly, his cock fucking aches —and he can feel the ghost heat from where Sebastian must be hard in his skinny jeans too, almost close enough to touch, scant centimeters away.

Chris’s phone rings loudly from his front pocket, and they both jump, their mouths separate with a sudden, slick noise. Chris reaches out reflexively to steady Sebastian, who laughs, and slides off his lap, onto the seat next to him to give Chris enough room.

“Sorry, sorry, I,” Chris says, arching his hips up a little to pull his phone out.

Sebastian’s fingers rub curiously over Chris’s hair as if feeling it out like he didn’t have his hands all over him a moment ago and he says, “Don’t worry about it,” so Chris gives him a grin that must go on for too long because his phone quiets and then starts up anew.

Chris startles, almost drops it, laughs, tries not to look too closely at Sebastian laughing too, and finally answers. It’s Scotty.  

“Where are you,” Scott’s saying. “I’ve called you like fifty times.”

“Actually, you didn’t, so I don’t appreciate the tone, mister,” Chris says, “I’m at my car.”

“Cool,” Scotty says. He probably has a nice buzz going, sounds like he does. “Meet you there.” Then he hangs up.

Chris tosses his phone down at his shirts at his feet and looks over at Sebastian stretched out in the seat beside him. The windows are fogged up behind his head, and he’s playing with his hair. His eyes look dark, his face still flushed, his shirt screwed all the way up to his pecs. He looks like he’s still hard in his jeans, too —an obvious bulge. It probably hurts, his jeans are so tight, Chris wants to adjust it for him.

“Could you give me a ride?” Sebastian says, smiling at him. “Home, I mean.”

“Sure,” Chris says absently.

“Leave the shirt off, though,” Sebastian says. He winks exaggeratedly, and then breaks into a little laugh.

Chris leans over to kiss him.

 

*

 

“What’s with your face?” Scott says, leaning back in Chris’s passenger seat, his eyes half-closed, hardly slits. They’re pulling off Scott’s friend’s street and into an intersection. “And why is it so fucking warm in here, God.”

Chris takes one hand off the wheel to wave it blindly in Scott’s face, vaguely aiming for his mouth to get him to shut up. “I had the heater on.”

“Yeah, but your face, Chris.” Scott shifts around, peering at Chris’s profile. Chris can feel it. “Did you challenge a poor sad frosh to a push-up contest? It’s worse than you look after doing that extreme rock-climbing thing. Which, Sebastian, if you didn’t know, is pretty hilarious.” He twists around to grin at Sebastian in the backseat.

“Is it?” Sebastian says. Chris glances up at the rear-view mirror to see him. He’s wearing Chris’s flannel half done-up, his sheer v-neck still revealing a lot of collarbone. “Maybe I’ll get to see it sometime.”

“Maybe you will,” Chris says. He glances at the rear-view mirror again to catch Sebastian’s eye. They both grin.

“Oh, gross,” Scott says.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, that was a tiny, one-line cameo for Ryan Gosling.


End file.
